September First
by Captainraychill
Summary: It is September 1, 2017, on Platform Nine and Three Quarters, and things are not quite as they seem. Written as a gift for Krista for the 2012 HP Reversathon Fest on Livejournal. COMPLETE! Thank you to my WONDERFUL beta, UnseenLibrarian!
1. Prologue

**Platform 9 ¾ **

**Friday, September 1, 2017**

* * *

Not long after the red train and its sharp whistle had disappeared into the north, Draco Malfoy noticed something strange.

Another goodbye was taking place on Platform 9 ¾. Without fanfare and probably in secret, for this was a story that would sell out the _Prophet._

Hermione Granger was still famous, after all.

He watched as she was pulled into a rough embrace by Ginny Potter. The two women whispered in each others' ears before Ginny gave Hermione an aggressive kiss on the cheek, released her and marched away without a backward glance.

Harry Potter approached her next, almost shyly. Their exchange was solemn and tender. They hardly said a word as he held her. When he walked away, he cast a concerned glance over his shoulder, and Hermione waved, a tear sliding down her cheek.

Finally, she turned to Ron Weasley, her husband. They thought they were alone.

Draco sat hidden on a bench in a shadowy alcove as he had since the Hogwarts Express had taken Scorpius away. He hadn't meant to spy, but he hadn't wanted to return to his tomb of a lonely house either. Now it was too late to Disapparate without ruining whatever _moment _Weasley and Granger were about to share.

Draco hadn't expected that moment to involve a canary.

One moment, the couple stared at each other, tense and uncertain. Then Weasley pulled out his wand and flicked it toward a discarded sweet wrapper scuttling across the ground. The trash turned into a bright yellow bird, which flew in circles around their heads and sang.

This meant something to Granger. Draco watched surprise and joy light up her face as she laughed. Then, in an unsophisticated display of emotion (by Slytherin standards) he saw her happiness disintegrate into longing, sorrow and pain. When she launched herself at Weasley, he caught her, lifting her off her feet. She sobbed against his shoulder. He swayed them gently, side to side, and crooned soft words.

So, after nineteen years together... divorce.

When they kissed, Draco knew. It was a last kiss, desperate and sad. He gazed at his polished shoes, remembering the last time he'd kissed Astoria. He didn't look up until he heard footsteps departing.

Hermione stood alone now, a sweet wrapper at her feet.

When the blue train arrived a half hour later, she boarded it without a single piece of luggage. Draco followed her. There was no one waiting for him at home.


	2. Part One

**To Trevor**

* * *

There were few passengers on the Sea and Shore Line. It was a glossy train, the same royal blue as on flags. The sconces lighting its narrow walkways were shaped like shells. The train took passengers to Bright Beach and other coastal towns in the south. The last day of August marked the end of its high season.

Draco found Hermione easily and leaned against the doorway of her compartment. She gazed out the window as the train lurched forward with a low, metallic groan. She wore a sage-colored shirt, a long skirt and low-heeled boots. Her wild hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She had tossed her small, purple purse beside her.

"Excuse me, have you seen a toad?"

Startled, Granger looked at him, a whole new set of emotions displayed clearly on her face – shock, confusion and a touch of anger. She really should learn to hide what she was feeling.

"Trevor's dead," she said.

"Who's Trevor?"

"Neville's dead toad."

"Well then, let's have a drink in memory of dear, departed Trevor."

The drinks trolley stopped beside him, and the plump, cheerful witch pushing it said, "Anything off the trolley, dears?"

"Firewhiskey or butterbeer, Granger? Or do you prefer something with a little umbrella in it?"

"Two Firewhiskeys and two chilled butterbeers," Hermione said. "For me."

"The same for me," Draco said without hesitation. "And one Tahitian Zombie Bomb each."

Hermione raised an eyebrow and almost smiled as the trolley witch began mixing rum and various fruit juices into two extremely girly, blue, frozen cocktails topped with pink umbrellas. Each umbrella had a little fuse trailing out of the top of it like a mouse's tail.

"Oh, you're gay," Hermione said to him.

"This train _is_ going to the beach," Draco answered.

"Not a gay beach."

The trolley witch waved her wand, and a white table rose out the seashell-patterned carpet. She levitated their ten drinks onto it, tapping them each with a charm to keep them cool and ensure each glass stayed firmly fastened to the table when not touched.

"Would you like a light?" she said pointing her wand at the end of one of the umbrellas' fuses.

"No thanks," Hermione said. "I'm going to start with the less _fabulous_ butterbeer."

Draco gave the trolley witch several coins before she left. Then he sat down opposite Hermione, the drinks between them reminding him of large chess pieces.

"The trip's only an hour, Granger," he said. "You're going to get pissed."

"I'm not going to Bright Beach," she answered.

"Where are you going then?"

She considered his question as she took a glass of butterbeer. Maybe she didn't know where she was going. Maybe she was just going.

"That is, as yet, undecided," she admitted.

Draco picked up his own butterbeer and raised it toward her. "To Trevor."

"To Trevor."

Their glasses met with a friendly clink.

* * *

**Butterbeers**

After the war, when Draco had stopped trading insults with Potter, Weasley and Granger, there had been no reason to speak to them at all, and he hadn't. Over the years, any antagonistic relationship he'd had with the Trio became non-existent. He knew Granger worked for the Ministry, performing complex research for some department or other. He ran Malfoy Enterprises across town. When their paths crossed, they simply nodded and moved on, without a word.

So when he began with small talk, asking about her latest project at work, he was surprised that she answered him with a sneer. An almost perfect sneer, with just the right amount of disdain. Perhaps there was hope for her yet.

"Fine then," he said, deciding personal questions would be more entertaining anyway. "When was the last time that a gorgeous man, such as I, bought you five drinks, and then tell me exactly what happened after that."

Hermione thought for a moment before answering. "I don't think a man's bought me a drink unless it was rounds at the pub since... ever."

"Not even Weasley?"

"No, we just destroyed one of Voldemort's Horcruxes, kissed and then that was that."

Draco didn't respond to that ridiculously impressive statement. He just stared at her, telling her with a solemn gaze what he knew was honorable to tell her. He saw the moment understanding lit her eyes.

"You saw?" she said.

"Yes."

"I don't want to talk about Ron." Her voice was hard, and she turned away from him to gaze out the window again.

He studied her. She really hadn't changed much since school. She was still pretty and had that wild hair. But somehow, she was not herself. She seemed tired and sad. Defeated. He didn't like it. That wasn't how Hermione Granger was supposed to be.

After a moment, Draco said, "So, the kids have probably raided the food trolley by now."

"Probably," Hermione said, turning back to him. "Rosie likes licorice wands." Draco heard an unmistakable affection enter her voice when she said her daughter's name. He saw a bit of the old light return to her dark eyes.

"Scorpius likes cauldron cakes and chocolate frogs," he said. "He collects the cards, of course. He's got one of you."

"Rosie invested in frogs with her birthday money. She ended up with three of mine, two Rons, five Harrys and one Neville. She asked us to sign them so she could sell them at school."

"Did you?"

"Yes. I want to encourage her entrepreneurial spirit. She's also written to Honeyduke's in secret. I'm not yet sure what that's about."

"She sounds like a Slytherin."

"Don't you _dare_ say that," Hermione said with a mock glare. Then her expression softened. "What is Scorpius like?"

Draco felt the familiar love and warmth that always accompanied thoughts of his son. He'd felt like his heart was breaking to watch Scorpius walk, all alone, awkward and too tall for his age, onto the Hogwarts Express. A trained eye could see the boy's fear. Draco had hidden such feelings behind a swagger when he was young. He did so even now. But Scorpius had never swaggered in his life. He'd probably fall down if he tried.

"He's shy and quiet," Draco said. "Very curious. He loves to read and learn."

"Sounds like a Ravenclaw," Hermione said, smiling.

"Maybe. In which case, he'll have to make new friends." Draco paused, staring into his butterbeer. "That's hard for him. He's known Zabini's sons all his life, but they'll definitely be sorted into Slytherin."

"Rosie could make friends with a rock. And she has her cousins. But I hope she can find a real best friend." Hermione had finished her first butterbeer and levitated the empty mug an inch above her hand, spinning it slowly. "She'll need someone," she said softly. "When we tell her we've separated."

"Why haven't you told her yet?"

"We didn't want to ruin the start of her first year. It's a very important time. In a couple of weeks, we'll visit Hogwarts together and tell her."

"The secret could get out. It would be worse if she finds out through the _Prophet_ in the Great Hall."

"No one will find out," she said confidently. "Unless you talk."

"Of course not," Draco protested. "What kind of bloke do you take me for?"

"I don't know. I don't know you, Malfoy. We've never really spoken, have we?"

"Until now."

"Until now," she said, watching him with shrewd eyes. He wondered what she thought of him, now that they'd shared a civil conversation for the first time in their lives. He hoped she liked him because he realized, with mild surprise, that he liked her.

She raised her second butterbeer and said, "To good conversation."

"To good conversation."

* * *

**Firewhiskeys**

"I had my first day of school dream again last night," Hermione said, halfway through her first Firewhiskey. "Hadn't had it in years."

Draco's eyes kept drifting to an errant lock of hair that had slipped out of Hermione's elastic and curled over the breast pocket of her blouse.

"What dream is that?" he asked.

"I'm in my nightgown and – No, I should begin differently."

Draco didn't know about that. Granger in her nightgown might be the perfect place, actually, to begin an interesting story. He wondered what this nightgown looked like. Was it white and prim and modest, with buttons all way up her throat? Or not?

"I should begin at the beginning," she said.

"And go on till you come to the end: then stop."

"Hey! Do you know that you just quoted a Muggle book?"

"I did not. _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ is a Wizard book."

"No, it isn't! If Lewis Carroll were a wizard, I would know it."

"He was a Squib."

"Oh," Hermione said, her eyes narrowing. Draco watched her, fascinated by the rapid thoughts that passed over her face as clearly as sunlight. She was considering floating down a rabbit hole, potions that changed a person's size and disappearing cats. All nonsense that made a bit more sense if you lived life with a wand in your hand.

"That explains a great deal," she said.

"Back to this story about your nightgown, Granger."

"Oh, yes," she said. "September 1st has always been an exciting day for me. I love school, as you know. And every year, it was this new beginning, a fresh start that made me giddy and hopeful but also very nervous. Would I make friends? Would I do well? I would have these anxious dreams the night before the first day of school. And last night, I had another one. I was in my nightgown, walking to school, like I did before I went to Hogwarts. But I didn't have any books. And it was snowing. I was walking on these great hills of snow, barefoot, freezing. And I was so worried because I knew I was going to be late and unprepared."

"And in your nightgown."

"I believe that qualifies as unprepared."

"It's not surprising that you'd have that dream the night before such an important day. Today, I mean."

"Except that today is an ending," Hermione said quietly.

"It's a beginning, too."

"It doesn't feel like one."

"It's the beginning of a journey. And when you come back home in a couple of weeks, you'll begin a new life."

"After we tell Rosie, I'm leaving again. Except for her breaks, I plan to travel until next June."

Draco's brows lifted in surprise. There was no way she could afford the cost and time of such a trip with her Ministry job.

"What about work?" he asked.

"I quit."

"Where will you go?"

"Egypt, India, Brazil... everywhere I've never been."

The train's whistle screeched. Its wheels braked with whines and groans. Through the windows, Draco could see the cheery station, with its blue-painted walls and white benches. He watched passengers depart, parents without children, taking in one more day at the shore despite the snap of autumn in the air.

Perhaps Hermione said what she said next because she thought he would be departing the train at Bright Beach - that this was a chance encounter. She didn't realize he was following her yet, but she would soon enough.

"When I was on that train platform, after Ron left, I had never felt more alone in my whole life."

Still gazing out the window, Draco answered, "But you weren't alone."

He felt Hermione looking at him and turned to her, noticing again how her brown eyes had flecks of amber and gold in them. Colors not unlike Firewhiskey. She opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted.

"Hello, dearies," the trolley witch called out as she stopped before their compartment. "Seems like you're the only two moving on from Bright Beach. The conductor would like to know your destination."

The witch looked at Draco, and Draco looked at Hermione.

"I want to see a lighthouse," she said.

"Bright Beach has a lovely one with red and white stripes, just like a Peppermint Pestle," the witch said in a coaxing voice.

"I want to see something more unusual than that. Something older."

"Well," Draco said. "Since this train doesn't go to Egypt and its lighthouse is no longer standing, I would suggest The Old Light in Cornwall."

"Is that fine with you, love?" the witch asked.

"Yes, the Old Light. Thank you."

When Hermione and Draco were alone again, she unzipped her boots and slipped them off, revealing pretty, curved legs and a pair of white socks. Draco was surprised by a faint stir of arousal low in his abdomen. Must be the spirits. The train heaved forward and left Bright Beach, picking up speed until it was racing through the countryside. The Sea and Shore Line had just become an express.

"So, Malfoy," Hermione said. She picked up her second Firewhiskey and settled back into the corner of her seat, tucking her feet beneath her. "Tell me about the Old Light."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Thanks for reading! Reviews are welcomed. :)


	3. Part Two

**Tahitian Zombie Bombs**

* * *

"Ready?"

"Ready."

"_Incendio!_"

A small flame shot out of the tip of Draco's wand, lighting the little fuses hanging out the umbrellas of their Tahitian Zombie Bombs. The fuses began to sizzle and spark with bright, tropical colors.

"I smell coconuts," Hermione said, amazed, right before the blue slush of the Zombie Bombs exploded into flame.

"Drink, Granger!"

"But it's on _fire_!"

"Exactly! Go!"

Draco lifted his flaming drink and took a gulp. The flames were cool and ticklish. The drink was sweet with crushed fruit. He smelled coconuts, too, and sugar and salty ocean air. After his first sip, he glanced at Hermione. Her eyes were wide over her glass.

"That's fun," she said before taking another, experimental sip. "Do you hear drums when you drink it?"

"Yes, jungle drums."

She laughed, took the pink umbrella out of her drink and poked it into her thick hair, above one ear.

"Malfoy, how on earth do you even know about this drink? Aren't you all _cognac_ and _board_ _meetings_ and _snakes_ and _silk smoking jackets_? That's what you are, right? Not Tahitian Zombie Blombs... I mean, Bombs."

Draco smiled. She was petite, and it didn't take too much drink to get her pissed. "I'll have you know that every board meeting of Malfoy Enterprises begins with umbrella drinks. We can't cast a vote without a quorum and sliced pineapple."

"Liar," Hermione accused. She stood up, swayed a bit and mumbled something about the damned train before sitting ungracefully next to him. "Pineapples go completely against your stuffy-shirted image. I know your shirt is stuffed with... with something. But what?"

Before Draco could believe what he was seeing, Hermione's fingers were fiddling with the buttons of his black shirt. He was instantly light-headed. It had nothing to do with inebriation and everything to do with the swift and powerful arousal that swept through him. He was fully erect. Some primitive instinct urged him to pull Hermione into his lap and kiss her breathless, to press his hardness up against her soft body. He fought for control and swatted her hands away instead.

"What?" she snapped, sitting back.

"Granger, you're drunk," he said, his voice rough. He prayed she wouldn't notice his tented trousers.

"I am not drunk. I just want to know how someone as dignified as Draco Malfoy knows about these Blombie Zoms, because they're _brilliant_."

"Astoria."

The instant he said her name, Draco felt strange. Here he was, talking about the love of his life, his dead wife, while he had an agonizing erection for another woman. He started to silently recite World Cup Quidditch stats. That always worked.

_1958 – England vs. Spain. Spain 210 to 120. MVP Garcia._

_She smells so good. Want her hands on my chest, touching me. No!_

_1962 – India vs. Germany. Germany 190 to 180. MVP Wagner. _

_Take her now. Slide your hands up her legs and make her wet. No!_

By 1986, his mind and body were under his control again. Hermione had sobered at the mention of his wife. She stayed on his side of the compartment but leaned back against the far wall, near the window, staring at him and waiting.

"Astoria," he said again. Her name sounded awkward on his tongue, like a foreign word. He couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken it aloud to another person. "Astoria used to love this kind of drink."

Hermione drew her feet up under her again and took another sip of her Zombie Bomb. Its flames had died out. "I thought Astoria would have been all _chardonnay_ and _charity fundraisers_ and _snakes_ and _tasteful purses_."

Draco smiled, careful not to glance at Hermione's purple bag that looked like something a shabby genie would own. Astoria had been all those things to the world, but with him, in secret, she had been so much more. She had been herself. And he'd been able to be himself with her.

"She was _chardonnay_ and _charity_ _fundraisers_," Draco answered. "But she was also _umbrella drinks _and_ mystery novels _and_ chess._ She was one of the most adept Occlumens I've ever encountered. And she loved the sea and the shore."

"I love the sea and the shore, too," Hermione said quietly. She lifted her Firewhiskey. "To Astoria."

"To Astoria."

He took a moment to remember his wife walking along the shore in Fiji, her eyes as crystal blue as the sea. He remembered her in the kitchens of Malfoy Manor, upsetting the elves, because she liked to bake. More than one morning, in a beam of sunlight, he had kissed a streak of sugar off her cheek as she'd made raspberry tarts or pumpkin muffins.

"Draco," Hermione said. "I should have told you this much sooner." She paused until he looked into her eyes, and then she spoke with gravity and sincerity. "I'm sorry that your wife died."

Draco felt a familiar twist in his guts. His grief had changed over the years. What had once been intensely painful, like the blade of a knife stabbing, was now just sadness, the mild pulse of an old wound under scars.

He had never expected Astoria to die so young. No one had. No one had known her heart was diseased until hours after it had stopped beating one Wednesday morning almost three years ago. All of his friends had expressed awkward condolences at her funeral. One would think, after so many deaths, they would be better at it. But everyone had used euphemisms like _passed away _or _crossed over_. He appreciated that Granger spoke with truthful language.

His wife had died.

"Tell me about her," Hermione said.

He shook his head. He couldn't.

When his father had died in Azkaban, he and his mother had comforted each other. When she had died five years later, he'd leaned on Astoria, crying without shame against the fine lace of her collar. But when Astoria had died, Draco had been left with no one to comfort him. He'd had to be the one to provide comfort. He'd had to be strong for Scorpius.

No one knew that, for the first year, the only place he could sleep without nightmares was on the floor of Astoria's closet, where her clothes still held her beautiful scent. No one knew that, through the second year, he'd still heard her soft laughter in the garden and had thought he was going mad. No one knew that he hadn't had sex in three years. That just the thought of touching another woman had made him nauseated. Until today.

He looked at Hermione. She still had that silly, pink paper umbrella in her hair. Her eyes looked large, sad and perilously close to tears. He felt an entirely different twist inside, in his chest, at the thought of her crying.

"Thanks for bringing down the mood, Granger," he scolded lightly. "Now, you have to tell a joke."

"I only ever remember one joke. And it's not very good," she said, but she seemed relieved.

"Tell it."

"Fine. What do you call a naked man on roller skates?"

"What are roller skates?"

**"**See." Hermione rolled her eyes. "You won't get it."

"What's the answer?"

"A pull toy. But it's not funny now. I need to learn a Wizard joke."

She took another sip of her drink, moving her shoulders to the rhythm of jungle drums he couldn't hear, until he took another sip of his.

"I suppose we could just do impressions of Snape and McGonagall," he said.

"That's a brilliant idea! You do Snape, then I'll do McGonagall."

Draco winced at that horrific image. Feeling ridiculous but not caring at all, Draco lowered his voice and spoke slowly in his best Severus Snape impression, which had been perfected in the Slytherin common room during his school years.

"Miss... Granger."

"Oh, that's very good," Hermione whispered.

"Silence!"

Draco considered transfiguring his jacket into a billowing, black cape but rejected the idea as cheap theatrics. Instead, he stood up and loomed over her. She looked up at him with dark, sparkling eyes and expectation. She didn't look tired or sad or defeated anymore. She looked happy, and he had done that. With the help of a great deal of spirits, of course. Fighting an out of character smile, he intoned, "That will be one thousand... two hundred... seventy-eight... points... from... Gryffindor."

For the first time in her life, Hermione Granger howled with laughter at losing House points. She was officially Zombie Bombed.

Or, as she so eloquently stated, Blombie Zommed.

* * *

**In One Afternoon**

Ten minutes later, after her pitiful McGonagall impression, Hermione fell asleep.

She drifted off tucked, as seemed to be her habit, into the corner at the other end of Draco's long seat. The ever-changing light from the window moved over her pale skin and dark hair. He noticed little things about her that he never had before – that her eyelashes were straight and long, that her bottom lip was sulky and seductive, that sunlight revealed strands of auburn in her brown hair. Even relaxed, she had a notch of faint wrinkles between her eyebrows, and Draco wondered if she'd worried more than she'd laughed. He gazed at her hand and thought of how different her short fingernails were from Astoria's long, manicured ones.

"Checkmate." Astoria had smiled sweetly when she'd said it, her elegant fingers poised over a black marble bishop or queen. She had always played black.

_Will I always compare every woman to her?_

That thought was burned out of his brain, along with any thoughts of Astoria, when Hermione shifted in her sleep. Never opening her eyes, she uncurled herself, her body sliding down until she lay on her side. She stretched out her legs, making a sound halfway between a sigh and a moan. Her sock-clad feet touched the side of Draco's thigh.

The contact sent another surge of feverish need through him. He was hard and ready. God, it had been too long. He gripped the tops of his thighs, shaking with his effort to stay in control, to not touch Hermione or himself. He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. In darkness, he felt the sway of the train and the warmth of her feet against him. He smelled the gorgeous scent that rose from her skin. He listened to the sound of her breathing and his own thudding heartbeat.

Draco had known Hermione Granger for twenty-five years. And in one afternoon, everything had changed. He suddenly wanted her with a passion that stunned him. He waited for that realization to fill him with guilt, but it didn't. His next thought sent a frisson of alarm through him.

_Am I ready to move on?_

He'd thought he never could. He'd thought such a thing would feel like betrayal. But it didn't. Wanting Hermione felt right.

So he opened his eyes and let himself want.

He gazed at her little feet, in socks, touching him. Her long skirt was rumpled up to her knees, its dark folds and secrets calling to him, urging him to reach underneath, to stroke his fingers up the curves of her bare legs. To find the elastic edge of her knickers and feel her heat. He wanted to make her sigh and moan. He wanted to make her tremble as he trembled at the mere thought of touching her.

His body swayed with the rhythm of the train, and he imagined himself above her, moving with that rhythm. After an hour of letting his desire simmer, he couldn't resist any longer. He had to touch himself. It was either that or touch her. He pressed the palm of his hand down onto his erection, just once, desperate for relief, but it only made the torment worse.

At some point, Draco fell asleep, too, trapped in the silky bonds of an erotic dream. Hours later, he was startled awake when the blue train's whistle blasted through the air. The Sea and Shore Line had arrived at the Old Light Station, which was nothing more than a wooden platform tucked within a shelter of rugged stone. Hermione stretched awake with a sleepy moan. Her shirt pulled taut against her breasts. Still half-floating in dreams of sex, Draco caught a glimpse of her pink bra. He made a choking sound and looked away, silently and desperately reciting Quidditch stats again, 1902 to 1930.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Thanks for reading - reviews are welcomed!


	4. Part Three

**The Old Light**

* * *

The lighthouse was an austere sentinel that had protected sailors and ships for hundreds of years. It was a granite tower built upon a jagged rock that rose out of the slate-colored sea. Beyond it lay all the mystery and possibility of the ocean, the wide horizon and the endless, blue sky.

"It's beautiful," Hermione said. "Strong."

"But is it as impressive as a Peppermint Pestle?"

"Oh, absolutely not."

They stood on the pale golden sand of the Cornwall coast after over six hours on the Sea and Shore Line. Hermione's breath had caught at their first sight of the ocean, wonder in her eyes.

"I thought you'd been to the shore before," Draco said.

"I have."

"Your face... you look like a child seeing the sea for the first time."

"It always takes me by surprise."

All traces of the spirits they'd drunk were gone, but their conversation continued to unfurl without effort as they walked up and down the beach. They talked about work and the Ministry and Hogwarts and alternative uses for aconite. About spell creation. About cooking. About their best and worst birthdays ever. About the effects of the great medieval plagues upon Muggle and magical culture. Draco was amazed at how their words flowed, as natural and unceasing as the waves that reached for their feet.

When the setting sun began to color the sky with strokes of coral pink and violet, they sat down on the powdery sand. Draco finally gave into the temptation to share something important and personal with Hermione. He didn't analyze why he'd felt the need to do this for hours.

"Astoria once said she wanted to be buried near the ocean," he said, looking out at the lighthouse. "She loved the shore. I guess I told you that before."

"Yes," Hermione said kindly. "Where is she buried?"

"The Malfoy family crypt. It's a cold, grand display of power and wealth. She wanted to be beside me, and one day, I'll be buried there next to my parents."

Hermione hugged her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them, curling herself up like a hedgehog as he'd discovered she liked to do. When she spoke, her voice was very quiet.

"Dobby's buried on the shore. Not far from here actually, at Shell Cottage near Tinworth."

"Dobby."

"The house-elf I assume you used to kick."

Draco remembered Dobby. Malfoy Manor had dozens of house elves, but Dobby was legend among them. For his rebellion, for defying the great Lucius Malfoy and for rescuing Harry Potter and his friends. Including Hermione. The memory of her on his drawing room floor, screaming and bleeding, still haunted Draco. He never entered that room, leaving it in darkness, in the past. He hadn't known that Dobby had died saving her that day, not until well after the war.

And truth be told, Draco probably had kicked Dobby once or twice. More than one house-elf had been kicked out of his way as he'd stormed through the house after his father had berated him for losing the House Cup or letting Potter catch the Snitch.

But he also remembered that once, a very long time ago, he'd played Hide-and-Seek with two elves, and one of them had had large, blue eyes. That was the morning that Father had taught him, quite brutally, that house-elves were not friends. They were servants. It was a lesson he'd learned well.

Draco noticed Hermione was looking at him, her expression guarded. She was well known for her misguided attempts to save all house-elves.

"I know who Dobby was," he said. "And I'm ashamed of how I treated him. I'm ashamed of how I treated many people. Except for your git of an ex-husband, of course. The Weasel deserved it."

"Don't speak badly of Ron," Hermione said sternly. "I won't permit it."

"You can make fun of Astoria if you want."

"Oh, please, the perfect lady? What is there to make fun of?"

"She couldn't sing. At all. She sounded like a baby mandrake when she tried."

"You're lying."

"_Veritas_ me. The sad thing was she actually thought she was good. She sang every chance she got."

Hermione laughed. The light of the setting sun made her skin glow and turned her hair a gleaming auburn. Draco felt that strange mix of emotions again. Love and tenderness at his memories of Astoria. Desire and a growing infatuation with Hermione. He dug his fingers into the sand to keep from reaching out for her. It was a hopeless attraction. Even if he was ready to move on after three years, she had just left her husband this morning.

"Your Astoria sounds amazing," Hermione said.

"She was. She was a wonderful mother to Scorpius. He misses her."

"You're a wonderful father. I could tell at King's Cross Station how close you two are."

Draco sat up, feeling proud. He'd had worked hard to have a good relationship with his son, one based on love rather than fear.

"When Astoria died," he said, "I was nervous I wouldn't know how to talk to Scorpius without her. Which was barmy because he and I had spent plenty of time alone, just the two of us. But I just thought I wouldn't be able to say the important things the way she could."

"Do you tell him you love him?"

"Every day."

Every day but tomorrow and the next day and the next, until it was appropriate to send an owl. Draco felt a tightness squeeze his chest at the fact that his son was gone. The Hogwarts Express would reach Hogsmeade Station soon. Scorpius and the other first years would follow Hagrid to the lantern-lit boats floating on the lake. Would he be afraid? How would he be sorted? Would he be lonely?

Would he be alone?

"Draco," Hermione whispered, and he looked at her in the fading light. "Scorpius knows you love him, even if you're not there to tell him."

It was a miracle, due more to his shock at her perception than to any self control on his part, that Draco didn't pull Hermione into his arms right then and kiss them both senseless. He wondered if she could see the heat in his eyes. She turned away, and he followed her gaze to watch the sun set. It was a fiery ball that cast a column of sparkling light on the sea. When it disappeared behind the horizon, the lighthouse was illuminated. Its silvery-white light shone brightly from the top of the granite tower, its beam sweeping over the darkening water.

"Rosie has always been her Daddy's girl," Hermione said softly. Draco could barely hear her over the whisper of the waves. "I'm afraid she'll hate me now."

"She's almost a teenager. She would have hated you for awhile anyway. She'll whine and rebel. And then, in a few years, she'll get over it."

Hermione glanced at him, and he could sense her curiosity even in the dark. He sifted sand through his fingers.

"How do you know this?" she asked.

"Astoria knew everything. Since she died, I have to read books."

"I have to read books, too."

"I know."

Hermione didn't speak again until the sky was deep blue and scattered with stars. The moon was the smallest slice of a crescent. Draco couldn't see her face anymore. In the darkness, she spoke slowly, but freely, like someone confessing her sins.

"Ron and I argued all the time when we were growing up. I'd loved him since second year. When we got together, it was wonderful for eight years. We still fought, but we'd make up before bedtime. My mother always said, _Never go to bed angry_. But after Rosie came, he wanted me to stay home with her. He had just assumed I would. I still don't know why he thought I'd be happy doing that. One night, we had a huge row over it, and he left and spent a whole week at the Burrow. Seven nights. Rosie cried through five of them.

"When he came back, we never really made up properly. I just handed him Rosie and went to bed. After that, we never fought again. I think we were too scared of breaking _us_ and with Rosie just a baby, _us_ was too precious and fragile to risk. So he didn't say anything when I found a sitter and went back to work. And I didn't say anything a few years later when he began to volunteer for undercover assignments and be gone for weeks at a time. Without a word, we just grew further and further apart."

Gone for weeks at a time. Draco felt anger heat his hands as he made them into fists. He wanted to pound the Weasel into a bloody pulp for hurting Hermione.

"He cheated on you," Draco said.

"No," Hermione said, her voice firm. "He never did."

"Granger –"

"Ron would never betray me."

"All wives think that."

"In this case, it's true. He's true. I've never met anyone more loyal in my life." Draco heard a core of steel in her voice. "That's what finally made us talk. He came to me to tell me something. He could have just been unfaithful, but he came to me instead because of his sense of honor."

"What did he tell you?"

"That he was developing feelings for Padma Patil. Six months ago, she began serving as the Liaison Healer between the DMLE and St. Mungo's."

"Does she have feelings for him?"

"He doesn't know. But it was obvious, when we finally spoke about it, that the two of us... that..." Hermione faltered and then took a deep breath. "We both just want a chance to be happy again."

After that, she fell silent, and Draco knew she had said all she was going to say. His anger left him. He turned to Hermione, his eyes searching her face in the dark for the silver gleam of tears but saw none. She stared out at the black sea and the white beam of the Old Light glittering upon it.

A moment later, it started to rain. The light, cold drizzle made Draco shiver. He put his arm around Hermione and pulled her close, aware of his heartbeat racing like a virgin's at the feeling of touching her. Before he could lift his wand to cast charms to warm and shield them from the rain, she whispered, "It's probably time for me to go."

Draco lowered his wand, surprised by the sense of loss he felt, hardly aware of the raindrops soaking his hair and shirt.

"Have you decided where you're going?" he asked, keeping his voice light.

"I have a place to spend the night. Then I'll decide in the morning."

"Time to go see the world?"

"Something like that."

Draco felt Hermione pulling away and resisted the urge to hold her tight against him. He stood up beside her and gave her his hands, lifting her up, making sure she was steady in the shifting sand. Fever spread through him again at her touch.

"Well, then," she said.

"Well, then," he echoed. He didn't let go of her hands.

Fear of his lonely house and curiosity had urged him to follow Hermione today, but their encounter had become so more than he'd expected. It felt like a beginning. He hoped that it was. He couldn't bear for it to be over yet.

"You don't want to go home," she said, with her razor-sharp perception. Draco felt his skin flush at the embarrassing truth, but he still didn't release her hands. "I can give you shelter for the night." He nodded, careful to hide the sweeping feeling of triumph her simple words sent through him.

She tightened her grip on his hands and asked, "Ready?"

"Ready."

"Shell Cottage."

The glow of the lighthouse twisted into a silver ribbon, then went black as they Disapparated.

* * *

**Author's Ending Notes:**

I became a little fascinated with English lighthouses while researching this story. The Old Light had several sources of inspiration. Its name was borrowed from a lighthouse on Lundy Island in Devon. Its look was borrowed from Bishop Rock Lighthouse of the Isles of Scilly in Cornwall. I discovered that many lighthouses in England were built by the Corporation of Trinity House. "The safety of shipping, and the well being of seafarers, have been our prime concerns since Trinity House was granted a Royal Charter by Henry VIII in 1514" (trinityhouse dot co dot uk).

**Thanks for reading - reviews are welcomed! :)**


	5. Part Four

**Shell Cottage**

* * *

Draco's feet landed on sand, still on a Cornwall beach. It probably looked like the one he'd just left, except for the absence of the Old Light. Hermione's hands slid out of his, and she cast a _Lumos Maxima_, sending a bright ball of light high into the air.

"This is Shell Cottage, Bill and Fleur's home."

The glow in the sky illuminated one of the strangest houses Draco had ever seen. It was a small cottage that seemed to be sinking rather crookedly into the sand. It had diamond-paned windows like Malfoy Manor, but that was definitely where any resemblance ended. The entire structure, even its two tall chimneys, was covered in shells. The large scallop shells shingling the peaked roof shimmered like dragon scales in the _Lumos_.

He'd heard of this place.

"Are they home?" Draco asked, instead of the questions he wished to ask.

"No. Their twentieth anniversary was August 1st, and they're celebrating with an extended holiday. But my guest and I should still be welcome."

Draco followed Hermione through clumps of feathery beach grass and up a rugged stairway carved of driftwood. At the front door, she held her hand out to him.

"Wait," he said. "This is where you came after... Bellatrix."

"Yes," she answered, dropping her hand.

"And where Dobby died."

"Yes."

"Where is he buried?"

Hermione cast a silent _Orchideous_. White roses tumbled out of her wand and twined into a wreath. With a flick of her wrist, the flowers glowed and floated gently through the air, rising up to a dune beyond of the cottage.

"He's there," Hermione said. "But if it's all the same to you, I think I'll visit his grave in the morning after dinner, a bath and sleep."

"Of course." This time Draco took Hermione's offered hand and followed her through the front door of Shell Cottage. She slipped out of his grasp the second they crossed the threshold.

The inside of the house wasn't quite as strange as the outside. Its walls were whitewashed and embedded with hundreds of shells. Its furniture was shabby with chipped paint. As Draco glanced at the row of golden starfish decorating the driftwood mantle, a silvery light burst through the ceiling. It flowed around the room, becoming a silver-white horse that soundlessly trotted to a stop before Hermione and spoke in Ginny Potter's voice.

"Rose and Albus were both sorted into Gryffindor. We miss you already, Hermione. We missed you the second we left King's Cross. Be careful. Love, from everyone."

Hermione smiled at the Patronus as it turned with a toss of its shimmering mane and cantered through the front wall of the house. She glanced up at Draco and said what he was thinking.

"Hogwarts would have sent word to the manor."

"Gilbert," Draco said.

A house-elf with large, brown eyes and a tunic made of dishtowels appeared between them with a pop. He looked timidly at Hermione, then at Draco. He gripped a square, cream-colored envelope in both hands.

"A letter from Hogwarts, Master," the elf said, holding out the letter. "And dinner is served."

"What's for dinner?" Draco asked as he took the letter. Hogwarts' crest was pressed into the red wax seal. Snake, lion, badger or eagle?

"Seafood linguine with shrimp, mussels and calamari in a champagne truffle butter."

"Granger," he said, resisting a smile as he snapped the envelope's seal. "What did you have planned for dinner?"

Hermione paused before answering, "Porridge."

Gilbert gasped in horror, one of his floppy ears twitching.

"It was just going to be me," Hermione muttered with a pretty blush.

"Master Draco cannot eat _porridge_ for dinner!" The elf disappeared without another word. He reappeared seconds later, choreographing an aerial ballet of china, silver, crystal, linen, white wine and seafood linguine. It was probably the finest table that had ever graced Shell Cottage. Certainly, a great deal more posh than porridge. With a final flourish, the elf lit the fire in the hearth and Disapparated away.

"What does it say?" Hermione asked.

Draco looked down at the envelope, sliding his finger under the flap. _Slytherin,_ he thought. _Please, Slytherin._ He read the tall, narrow script of Filius Flitwick, his son's Head of House.

"Ravenclaw."

His stomach felt heavy, as if he'd swallowed a rock. He imagined Scorpius, thin and shy, sitting at a long table full of strangers. Slytherin House would have been a shield for him. Now, he would be vulnerable.

_You're a Malfoy,_ they would ask, looking at his pale hair. _Wasn't your father a filthy Death Eater?_

Draco had been one of the few Slytherins to return to Hogwarts for his eighth year. And the only one with the Dark Mark on his arm. For a year, he'd endured constant insults, both sly and bold. His old bully's tricks were turned upon him – the tripping foot that sent him flying, hard shoves in the hallway. Salt in his cauldron. Spit on his face. Ambushes in dark corners, four to one. By graduation, his healing skills rivaled Madam Pomfrey's, and he'd decided to pursue a career in healing only to be told, by owl, that his application was "Unacceptable."

He was unacceptable.

And, in a place deep inside, he'd understood. His attackers had lost their parents, their children, to Voldemort, and Draco had stood behind him. So he'd defended himself but endured the abuse. He'd treated it as a penance, ashamed of how weak he'd been and the harm he'd done.

But it wasn't right that Scorpius might be forced to pay that penance, too. Nineteen years was a long time, but what if it wasn't long enough?

"Draco, don't worry," Hermione said gently. "Scorpius will make friends."

"It's not just that. It's..."

When he fell silent, she placed her hand on his arm and whispered, "What is it?"

Draco felt the heat of her touch through his sleeve. Desire and longing burned through him as it had on the train and the beach. Sexual longing, but also a longing to do the right thing. He grasped her hand in his.

"Gilbert," he said again. The elf Apparated into the room.

"Yes, Master?"

"Hermione, may my elves visit the grave if they wish?"

She blinked, seeming mystified for a moment, still staring at their joined hands. Then she looked up at him and said, "Yes, of course. Its wards allow those bearing good will to enter."

He nodded. "Gilbert, did you know Dobby?"

"Dobby, Master?"

"He left the family's service during my second year at Hogwarts."

"Yes, sir, I knew Dobby," the elf squeaked.

"This is where he died. A hero's death. His grave is on a dune northeast of the cottage. If you wish, you may visit it before you leave. And tell the other elves they may do so as well."

The house-elf stared up at him for so long that Draco added, "Do you understand?"

"Y-yes, Master. Thank you, Master," Gilbert stuttered, making an awkward bow before he Disapparated.

"Don't do it, Hermione," Hermione whispered. "Don't you do it just because he's nice to some house-elves."

"Don't do what?" Draco asked.

"Nothing," she snapped. She tried to pull out of his grasp, but he wouldn't let her. Not this time.

He twisted their hands until he could see the delicate veins tracing the inside of her wrist. Then he pushed up the fabric of her sleeve, revealing the pale, lace-like cuts on her arm that spelled a word he hadn't spoken since the Battle of Hogwarts. His fingers reached up and traced the _M_, and Hermione's breath caught.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking at her earnestly. "I'm sorry I was cruel to you. And I'm sorry I didn't do anything to stop Bellatrix from torturing you. I should have tried to help."

She was silent and still for a long moment before mimicking his movements. She turned his hand over and exposed his wrist. Her fingers traced up his arm, sending a tremor through him, until she touched the edge of his Dark Mark.

"You couldn't have helped me even if you'd tried."

"But trying would have mattered."

"Yes, trying would have mattered. But your apology matters, too."

They clasped each other's arms like two people making the Unbreakable Vow. He gazed into her eyes, his heart beating wildly. Above the low, constant roar of the sea, he heard her breath, coming too fast, just like his.

_Does she feel it, too?_

Draco pulled Hermione toward him. Her captured hand came to rest upon his chest. He leaned down to kiss her, and she pushed away from him.

"I'm not hungry, after all," she murmured. She was halfway across the room before she spoke again. "Please tell Gilbert I'm sorry, but I just want to take a bath and go to bed. Use any room you like. Good night."

She practically ran away, leaving Draco alone and desperate with need.

For an hour, he experienced a sensory hell, listening to the bath running and imagining Hermione stepping out of her knickers. Listening to the light splash of water and imagining her hands stroking her wet, naked body. This torture was beyond the help of Quidditch stats. He'd recited 1678 to 1794 and still had an aching hard-on. Only tossing off would give him relief.

When he finally heard doors opening and closing above, Draco made his way up the cottage's twisting stairs. The white walls glittered faintly with sand. He felt like he was inside the spiral of a nautilus shell.

He stopped when he heard Hermione's voice around the curve. She was summoning something, but he couldn't tell what until her purple bag flew past him. His hand shot out and caught it. The bag twitched in his hand, its beaded tassel straining upward.

"_Accio_, Hermione's bag," she repeated. "What the..."

The struggling bag slipped out of Draco's fingers when Hermione walked into view, wearing only a large, white towel. She was so shocked to see him that the purse bounced off her arm and onto the steps. His eyes widened, taking in all of her in an instant. The tendrils of wet hair plastered to her freckled shoulders. Her bare feet. The drop of water sliding into her cleavage. She was scrubbed fresh. Sweet-smelling. And so enticing that he came undone.

All resistance destroyed, he climbed the stairs and pulled her into his arms.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Thanks for reading! Reviews are welcomed. :)**


	6. Part Five

**Give Up The Seas**

* * *

Hermione gasped as their lips met, and Draco took immediate, instinctive advantage, stroking his tongue inside her mouth. Her tongue was soft and sweet for such a sharp and clever instrument. She tasted and smelled of mint toothpaste. She held still until he sucked her sulky bottom lip between his teeth and caressed her back through the towel. Then she moaned and kissed him back.

He should have known.

Hermione was gloriously too much. Ardent and aggressive. She kissed with abandon, sliding her clever tongue against his. Her fingers left the knot of her towel to card through his hair. If he weren't pressed so close to her, the terry cloth would have fallen to their feet. She would be naked against his fully-clothed body. This erotic image sent a surge of hot adrenaline through him, but he couldn't bring himself to move a single inch away from her to make it happen.

It had been three years since he'd kissed a woman and seventeen years since he'd kissed a woman for the first time. This was so different from that first, tentative, gentle kiss that he and Astoria had shared. This was... incendiary.

Hermione slid one leg up to wrap around Draco's hip. He smelled the scent of her arousal and felt her heat against his thigh. His body flooded with intense pleasure and yearning and the need to dominate. His last, half-rational thoughts before his mind went white were _fire_ and _fuck_.

Then he was lifting her against the curved wall of the nautilus staircase. Kissing her and sliding his hands under the towel to squeeze her naked arse. Grinding his erection against her softness and moaning like a teenage boy. Hermione was moaning too, making wild sounds that echoed through the strange curves of the seashell house. In less than a minute, she was coming. He held her tight as she shuddered against him, her fingers gripping his hair. Their kisses were transformed with her blissful cries.

Draco was stunned and elated. God, she was so passionate. He needed her _now_.

"My turn," he growled, tossing Hermione over his shoulder, like a barbarian. Her wet hair slapped the backs of his trousers. He stumbled up the stairs, desperate to find the nearest bed. Failing that, the floor would do. On the landing, he spotted an open door and saw white sheets.

Perfect.

This morning, he'd barely known Hermione Granger. Now, he'd give up everything in the world but Scorpius - every Galleon, the manor, his magic – just to possess her.

If he were Poseidon, he'd give up the seas to be inside her.

"No," she said with a gasp.

He was in the bedroom now, walking toward that heavenly, white bed.

"Draco! I can't. Listen to me."

Almost there.

"Stop!" Hermione shouted. He felt something strike his cheek.

_What did she mean_?

Draco didn't understand. He felt breathless and dazed like he did after a hard fall from his broom. And his face hurt. Had she just slapped him? How had she managed to do that while being carried, arse-up, over his shoulder like a sack of... something that people who labored carried over their shoulders?

He tumbled her onto the bed, glaring down at her. By some miracle, the towel still covered her breasts and her... Oh, God. Fuck. She'd told him to _stop_.

"What?" he said stupidly.

"Draco, I can't do this. I'm sorry. I just kissed Ron good-bye this morning!"

He was barely aware of her pulling a sheet over her legs as he stared at her in disbelief.

"You want me to stop?" he asked.

"Yes."

What he did next, he would deny to his grave. It was the most un-Slytherin thing he'd ever done in his life. In fact, it was undeniably and shamefully Gryffindor to the core.

He roared.

Like a damned lion. He roared at the ceiling – the raw, undignified sound filled with fury and frustration. Hermione lay on the bed, staring at him with wide eyes. He could still see her toes peeking under the white sheet and her shoulders above the white towel. Her hair was starting to curl. She was tousled and tempting. He didn't dare look at her flushed, beautiful face.

"Do _not_ follow me!" he ordered. He stalked out of the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

"I mean it, Hermione!" he yelled halfway down the coiling stairs.

"If you know what's good for you, stay the _fuck_ away!" He burst through the front door.

Draco ran down to the shore, as quickly as someone with a painful erection could run. Heedless of his shoes and trousers, he splashed three steps into the sea before falling down onto his knees and screaming every profanity he knew.

_What was wrong with him?_

His knees sank deeper into the wet sand as the waves receded. When they rushed back, they struck his thighs and chest with saltwater. He took off his jacket and threw it away, not caring where it landed, and ripped his shirt apart down the center. He was not so far into the water that it could knock him down, but he was _in_ it and _of_, feeling the rhythm of the relentless waves. He remembered the gentle rhythm of the train and then the fierce rhythm of thrusting against Hermione. He ran his hands down his bare chest, mindless with unsatisfied desire.

The only thing wrong with him was that he wasn't fucking her right now.

Another wave struck him as he unbuttoned his trousers and reached inside his pants. He touched himself with a groan and began to move his hand with rough, quick strokes. As his pleasure spiraled higher, he imagined Hermione naked above him, riding him, her hair wild and her eyes bright with passion. She had come so fast against him, her beautiful body quivering. He wanted to make her come again and again, forever. The waves were striking him. He tasted salt. He was so close, his muscles coiled tight. He threw back his head and roared again as he came, vaulted into a world of pure sensation. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed through him.

When Draco finally felt like he was inside of his body again, he opened his eyes and realized he'd collapsed back onto the shore, into sand and saltwater. His hand was still in his pants. He couldn't remember ever coming so powerfully while tossing off in his entire life. Not even as a teenager, when he'd ducked into broom closets between classes to satisfy his insatiable need.

"That was mad," he whispered as he slipped his hand out of his pants. He reached up to his chest to find his shirt buttons gone, carried away by the sea like shells. He couldn't find his jacket. It might be on its way to America. Ten minutes later, after several _Scourgify_ spells and a Sticking Charm to hold his shirt together, he walked slowly back to Shell Cottage.

Hermione was waiting for him at the kitchen table with a pot of tea. She was dressed in different clothes – a pink shirt, jeans and white socks. He wondered if they were Fleur Weasley's. Her hair was twined into a long braid down her back.

"Milk or sugar?" she asked.

"One sugar," he answered, looking away from the delicate tendrils of hair curled against her neck. She took a sugar cube off the top of the rough pyramid of cubes sitting on a porcelain plate and placed it into his cup. They drank in silence.

"This table is where we planned the Gringott's break-in," Hermione said several minutes later to break the tension. "Ron and Harry and I. And Griphook."

Draco nodded and then took the last sip of his tea, summoning his courage.

"I apologize for losing control," he said. "I haven't been with anyone since Astoria."

"I've never..." Hermione blushed and took a deep sip of her tea before continuing. "I've never been with anyone but Ron, and it's been almost a year. But I just can't now. Not yet."

"When can you?" he asked softly.

"I don't know. After my travels."

"To Egypt and India and Brazil?"

"Among other places."

Draco stared into his empty teacup, as if reading a fortune, wondering what Fate would bring to both of them over the next ten months.

"Of course," he said, "being Hermione Granger, you know about Pensieves."

"Of course."

"And you know that the Great Pyramid of Khufu was once encased in white limestone."

"Yes."

He drew out his wand and wordlessly sliced away the rough edges of the stack of sugar cubes between them to create a smooth, glittering, four-sided pyramid. He told her the name of the family who sold the best potions in the Heka Bazaar in Cairo. He watched her face become radiant with wonder as he revealed that the family owned a private collection of ancient memories they'd passed down since the Fourth Dynasty.

"They would let me view these memories? I could _see_ a wonder of the world being built?" she asked, amazed. She ran her fingertips over the sugar pyramid.

He shrugged. "Just tell them to son of Narcissa Malfoy sent you."

"I absolutely will. Thank you, Draco."

As she spoke his name, Draco felt a longing inside that went far beyond carnal need. He let himself look at her, at the curls against her neck, at the sweet curve of her lips, at her Firewhiskey eyes. He wanted countless more afternoons just like this afternoon. He wanted to kiss the sugar off her fingertips. He wanted to take her back up to that white bed and ravish her all night long.

He didn't want her to disappear out of his life, but that was exactly what was going to happen.

"You're welcome, Hermione," he said. "If I don't see you in the morning, have a safe and pleasant journey."

With that, Draco turned and walked away from her while he still could.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Author's Notes:**

I created the name of the Heka Bazaar in Cairo for this story. Heka is the deification of magic in Egyptian mythology.

Thanks for reading! Reviews are welcomed. :)


	7. Part Six

**At the Heart of It**

* * *

Hermione wasn't in the house when Draco came downstairs the next morning, dressed in fresh clothes delivered by his valet elf, Felix. It was obvious Gilbert had visited as well. A breakfast fit for a king, complete with an orange juice fountain, was laid upon the humble kitchen table. There wasn't a single bowl of porridge in sight.

_She's gone_, Draco thought.

He ate alone, feeling hollow as he listened to the sound of the sea. He tried to remember his disjointed dreams. In one, he had saved Hermione from Bellatrix and brought her here. In another, they'd brewed Polyjuice Potion at this table for the bank heist. They'd made love on a white bed. He remembered his hands wrapped around hers on the rods of iron headboard. He had woken up, hard and panting, no less than three times in the night. He wondered how long it would take for this obsession to fade.

When he finished eating and walked into the parlor, he saw a large bowl brimming with bright, green apples. His favorite. There had to be at least eighty of them. This was solicitous, even for his elves. Something was up.

_Dobby._

He walked out the back door of the cottage, through a tiny garden and up to the grave. The sky was clear and blue. Pale sand shifted under his shoes, and feathery beach grass tickled his fingertips. He could hardly see the simple, white headstone for all the gifts left on the plot. Flowers and food and small bottles of wine. Trinkets like thimbles and silky ribbon. A pair of hand-knitted blue socks. Hermione's wreath.

The stone read: _Here Lies Dobby, A Free Elf._

"_Orchideous_," Draco said. Red roses tumbled out of his wand and intertwined with Hermione's white roses.

_She's here_, he thought, although he didn't know why. When he looked up, he saw her in the distance. She stood where the sand became the blue sea, gazing out toward the faraway horizon. The hollow feeling inside him filled up with anticipation as he walked toward her.

"I've figured it out," Draco said, as he stopped beside Hermione. She glanced at him, unsurprised, as if it he appeared by her side every morning. Her shirt was black today, and her hair was in a ponytail. She shoved her hands into her jeans' pockets.

"Figured what out?" she asked.

"How you can afford to quit your job and travel around the world."

"Are you really going to talk about something as gauche as money, Malfoy?"

"Are you really going to pass judgment on me, Granger, when you made yourself a tidy sum endorsing a cereal called Golden Trios?" he teased.

"Oh, God," Hermione exclaimed, blushing red. It took all his will not to place his hand upon her brow and pretend to check her temperature.

"Why are you bringing that up?" she said. "It's ancient history. And it wasn't my idea."

"Could have fooled me, with your pretty, little caricature on the box and all."

Draco knew someone with Hermione's pride and integrity would feel embarrassed about endorsing a breakfast cereal based her celebrity. The box had featured glorified, cartoon versions of Potter, Granger and Weasley on the ready, wands drawn. She'd probably been greatly relieved when Weasleys' Ginger Snaps (The Cereal That Bites You Back) had overshadowed Trios in the marketplace.

"Ron and Harry talked me into it, and thank goodness they did, or there wouldn't have been anything in that cereal but sugar, marshmallows and a toy. Sugar rots children's teeth!"

"Are you saying that Golden Trios have nutritional value?"

"They do. They're made of oats."

"And _that_ _magic drop of honey_. Mustn't forget that."

"Oh, shut it," she said, finally laughing.

She seemed just as shocked as he was when, a moment later, her laughter disintegrated into a shuddering sob. Tears flowed down her cheeks. She put her hand over mouth and spun away from him. Draco stopped her, gently gripping her by her upper arms. He leaned down and whispered into her ear.

"Hermione? Are you crying over cereal?"

"No," she wailed. "Don't be ridiculous. I... I wouldn't do such a thing."

"Then tell me what's wrong," he coaxed, nuzzling his cheek against her soft hair.

She leaned back against his chest and whispered, "I'm afraid."

"Of what?"

"I... I'm afraid that Ron and I won't be able to become friends again. What if I grow apart from him and Ginny and the Weasleys. And H-Harry?"

At the heart of it, she was afraid of being alone again. Just like him.

"Everything's changing," he said.

"Y-yes. Rosie is leaving. And Ron... if I lose Ron and Harry, I won't have anyone!"

At this, her fragile composure shattered, and she began to cry like a lost child. With a groan, Draco turned her in his arms and pulled her into a tight embrace.

He'd never seen Hermione Granger cry before. He _hated_ it. She had always been so strong, full of power and righteous purpose. Watching her break down was like watching a lighthouse crumble into the sea, and he couldn't allow it.

"Hermione, hush," he said, stroking back her hair and placing a soft kiss on her forehead. "You won't be alone. But you have to make sure it doesn't happen. Talk to your friends. Don't make assumptions. Work things out. Be diligent."

"Maybe I shouldn't leave now," she said. "Maybe I should stay home. But I just feel like I have to get away."

"They'll understand. Send them owls. Buy them souvenirs. Then come back and be their friend."

When she didn't answer, Draco kissed her again, high upon one cheekbone. He tasted salt. His lips moved slowly and sweetly, placing kisses along the path her tears had taken. When his mouth hovered at the very corner of hers, Hermione's fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. She wasn't crying anymore. She was waiting. Draco closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of their ragged breathing and the sea.

"I'm going to kiss you again," he whispered. "Just once. I want to remember why I'm waiting."

"Waiting?"

"For you to be ready."

She shook her head and tried to pull away, but he kept her close, his fingers interlaced behind her back.

"I don't want you to wait for me," she said, gazing up at him.

"If the perfect woman comes along, I promise to forget all about you."

"Fine. And I'll sleep with as many foreign bellhops and waiters as I want."

"Feel free," Draco said, even as a smoky jealousy heated his blood.

"And the man who leads my camel in Egypt. And the man who leads my elephant in India."

"And any crocodile wrestlers you happen to meet in Brazil?" he teased, smiling.

"Of course, as long as they're humane."

"Sleep with all the foreign animal wranglers you wish, Granger. Just don't forget this," Draco said as he brought his lips to hers.

The kiss began as a sensual exploration, soft and wet and gentle. Draco shook with the effort to remain in control, but it was a lost cause. The moment he felt Hermione's fingers in his hair, the moment he heard her low moan, his restraint snapped, and the kiss burned. He pulled her closer, his hands in her hair and on her waist. His head reeled with pleasure.

"Draco, please," Hermione whispered. She was shaking now, too, fighting for control. Draco considered biting her lush, bottom lip to drive her over the edge.

"Please what, Hermione?" he said instead. "Tell me you want more than kisses. Ask nicely, and I'll give you anything."

"Oh, God! Please, I want you to... I want..."

And then Hermione roared. She screamed up into the sky as she pushed Draco away. He took a step toward her, and she threw out her hands to stop him.

"No! If you kiss me again, I won't be able to go."

"Good!"

"And I need to go!"

Draco didn't care what Hermione needed. He could _make_ her stay. He could seduce her with whispers and kiss her until she surrendered. He could tumble her down onto the sand and remove all their clothing and thrust into her luscious body, over and over again.

There was only one problem. He _did_ care about what Hermione needed. It took a long moment, but he finally stepped back, wondering if there were an Order of Merlin for heroic, sexual restraint. If so, he deserved it, First Class.

Hermione gazed at him. Their kiss had made a wreck of her hair. It had half-fallen out of its elastic, and long strands floated in the wind. Her face was flushed, her dark eyes, serious. Behind her were the sea and the sky. Draco felt his feet sinking into the sand, his future uncertain.

He committed every detail of this moment to memory, knowing he would watch it over and over again.

"Send me owls," he said. "Buy me souvenirs."

"I will," she said.

A second later, she Disapparated, leaving him alone on the beach.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Thanks for reading - reviews are welcomed. :)**


	8. Part Seven

**Return to Platform 9 ¾ **

_**Saturday**_**, **_**June 30, 2018**_

* * *

Draco Malfoy stood in the crowd on Platform 9 ¾, waiting for the red train to arrive. He was excited Scorpius was coming home for the summer. He just wished he could stop yawning.

Last night, his sleep had been interrupted by a so-called first-day-of-school dream brought on by anxiety. He'd dreamed he was walking to London, _walking_, in the snow without any shoes on, late to pick up Scorpius. Then he'd noticed he was naked except for a pair of boxers patterned with seashells. And _then_ he'd walked into Honeydukes to buy a dozen Peppermint Pestles, which he hated.

He blamed Hermione Granger for such a ridiculous dream. She was the reason he was so nervous, and the reason he was wearing these loose, summer robes. It only got worse when she finally walked through the brick wall onto the platform, right behind the Potters, and suddenly, he couldn't breathe.

Every morning for the past ten months, Draco had woken up in bed, smoldering with the heat of his dreams and imagination. But all those figments of Hermione (dressed in lace or leather or pink ribbons or nothing at all) paled in comparison to the real Hermione.

She stood in sunlight, in pretty sandals and a lemon-yellow sundress trimmed with white lace. Her hair was loose and bright with an auburn sheen. Her skin glowed, and there were freckles on her shoulders. She looked happy and confident. No longer defeated.

And that dress... Draco stared at how it curved over her slender body, how it revealed her beautiful arms and legs. He just wanted to _eat_ that dress right off of her and taste all the delectable parts underneath.

Hermione laughed at something, and Draco felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. It took him a moment to realize she was laughing at Ron Weasley. He and Padma Patil stood beside Hermione, holding hands. She was at ease with both of them, her gestures conveying a natural comfort. She'd done it. She'd kept her best friends.

_Send them owls. Buy them souvenirs._

Draco had received postcards from Hermione throughout last autumn. From Egypt and India and Brazil, but also from Venice and Marrakesh and Tokyo.

On Christmas Day, two large owls had delivered a heavy box wrapped in brown paper and red string. He'd opened it to find two pairs of black boots nestled together. Four silver wheels were attached to each sole. Hermione's note had read, "These are roller skates. Wear good socks with them." Draco had remembered her joke and laughed like an idiot. They were like ice skates but for land. That's all she'd had to say. He'd charmed the gravel walkway that led to the front gates into a glassy smoothness and skated with Scorpius, who'd loved them. They'd braved a Muggle department store on Boxing Day to buy an "authentic" pair for Michael, Scorpius' best mate.

More postcards had followed throughout the winter and spring. The last one, from New York, had arrived in late April, and he'd heard nothing more from her since. Had she met someone and fallen in love? Had she forgotten their encounter? Or was she ashamed of it? Would she ignore him when she saw him? Long minutes passed, and he became more and more certain that he was a fool.

Hermione followed Potter's gaze, turning slightly to her left. When her eyes met Draco's, through the crowd, her smile was radiant. His heart tripped and then soared. Now, he _knew_ he was a fool, grinning like that Squib's Cheshire Cat in the middle of King's Cross. He tried to compose himself into a state of proper Slytherin _ennui_ as Hermione hurried toward him.

"Hello, Granger," he said, his heart pounding hard inside his chest. "How was the world?"

"Enjoyable. I recommend it."

"Did you sleep with everyone as you'd planned?"

"Not quite everyone."

This flirtatious statement was accompanied by a shrug, and one lacy strap of her dress slid off her shoulder. She lifted it back into place.

"Will you be travelling this summer?" he asked, determined not to stare at her recently bare shoulder.

"No, I'll be home with Rosie. I have her every other week. We'll go to Shell Cottage. And I'd like to show her the lighthouse."

That strap was slipping down again. Damned, temptress lace. Draco wondered if Hermione had worn the dress to torture him. He certainly hoped so.

"How is Scorpius?" she asked. "Are he and Michael Brillig still best mates?"

"Inseparable. How did you know about Michael?"

"I asked," Hermione said, staring down at her sandals.

"You asked after my son?"

Draco didn't even bother to mask the tenderness in his voice. It would have felt like sacrilege to try when that tender feeling was filling him up inside, like faith. Like love. He reached out and hooked his finger under the fallen strap of Hermione's sundress. He slowly slid it back into place, his knuckles caressing her warm skin.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"You're welcome." His fingers stroked the lace and then trailed down her arm. He watched, with pleasure, when she shivered at his touch. He almost took her hand in his, almost. But he still wasn't sure how she felt about him. So he traced the line of her fingers with a fleeting touch and then dropped his hand to his side.

"Will you remain idle?" he asked. "Living off your cereal fortune? Or will you go back to the Ministry in the fall?"

"Actually, I'll be at Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts?" Draco stared down at her in shock. His heart was beating so violently now that he felt his pulse in the backs of his knees. Was that even possible? "Why Hogwarts?"

"Minerva offered me the Transfiguration position, and I accepted," she said. Her eyes glowed bright with excitement. She had always loved school.

He had, too, even when she'd kicked his arse in every class. He thought about September 1st and new beginnings and fresh starts. About crowded hallways and private offices and lingering dinners in the Great Hall. About autumn walks to Hogsmeade and scarves wrapped tight. About warm butterbeers and Firewhiskeys and the hearth fire at The Three Broomsticks.

No matter how hard he tried, Draco could not stop himself from smiling. No, not smiling, _grinning,_ in a giddy, undisciplined and very un-Slytherin fashion.

"What? What is it?" Hermione asked.

"I've accepted Defense," he said.

Hermione's entire face lit up. She grinned (also in a giddy, undisciplined fashion) before composing herself and rolling her eyes. "Oh, please, Malfoy. Can you even cast a Patronus?"

"I can." He'd learned the tricky charm well into his twenties, after he'd become a husband and a father.

"I don't believe you," Hermione said. "Do it. Now."

"I'm not a trained monkey to perform at your command."

"Is that your Patronus, a trained monkey? With a little vest and hat? How adorable."

Hermione sounded like she was talking to a Kneazle kitten, but her eyes gleamed wickedly. Draco wanted to kiss that smirk right off her smart face.

"My Patronus is not adorable," he said, with dignity. "It is manly and strong."

"Show me your full-bodied Patronus, and I'll show you mine."

"Deal."

Draco grabbed Hermione's hand and pulled her through the crowd to an archway and into an out-of-sight alcove. Ten months ago, he'd sat right here, alone and missing his son. He'd watched Hermione leave her husband and board a blue train, bound for the shore. In the fall, as new professors and chaperones, they would board a red train, bound for the north. It was strange and almost fateful – the sequence of endings and beginnings that wove around them, binding them together. Draco laced his fingers through Hermione's and pulled her close.

"I can't believe you're leaving a multi-million Galleon company so you can teach spells to children," she said. "Who'll run Malfoy Enterprises?""

"I will, but I'll leave daily business to my vice chairman and the board," he answered absently.

At the moment, he had less affection for Malfoy Enterprises than he would for a rampaging hippogriff. Instead, he concentrated on the very affectionate task of sliding his hand back up Hermione's arm and slipping his fingers under the insolent scrap of lace she dared to call a sleeve.

"I also missed my son," he admitted quietly. "I don't like living in an empty house."

"So, you haven't met the perfect woman?" Hermione asked.

Her voice was breathless. She stared up at him, seeming dazed. Both excellent signs. Draco pulled her sleeve down, exposing her shoulder.

"I have met the perfect woman," he said, meeting her gaze with honesty and courage. "But I'm still waiting for her."

The Hogwarts Express would arrive in less than ten minutes. Draco knew if he kissed Hermione's lips, he would be doomed to a hell of desire and frustration again. But he couldn't resist her completely, not when she was right here, in flesh and blood, the woman of his dreams. He leaned down, placing his lips on her bare shoulder, kissing every enticing freckle that he'd been dying to kiss since she'd walked onto Platform 9 ¾. She smelled even better than he remembered.

"Draco," Hermione murmured. He felt her hand against his heartbeat. He placed his palm on the back of her waist, pulling her closer. "Can you wait for me just a little longer?"

"Hermione," he said against her skin. "I'll wait until September 1st and not one day later."

"Are you _mad_?" she cried out. She pushed away from him with enough force that he stumbled back and sat down on a bench, his back against a brick wall. "Pick me up for a proper date a week from tomorrow. Promptly at seven o'clock."

_YES!_

Technically, it wasn't a roar because it had been silent. It was also not really a word or a thought anymore. It had transcended into pure feeling. A cry of victory and joy and excitement. _Yes_, Hermione wanted him. _Yes_, she would be his. _Yes_, he would shag her absolutely senseless in a week and a day. _Yes, yes, YES!_

"Seven in the morning or the evening?" he asked. He glanced down at his fingernails as if he were bored.

"Your preference."

"Morning then." It was twelve hours sooner.

"A bit eager, aren't you?" she teased.

"Hermione Granger, don't you _dare_ tease me about patience."

"Draco Malfoy, I'm not teasing you at all."

"You are the queen of..." Draco's riposte trailed away as Hermione began to pace and utter an incantation he didn't understand. It sounded Russian. The hair on his arms stood up as her magic charged the air around them. The lights flickered and dimmed with a hiss. A thin barrier of silvery smoke filled the archways that led from the alcove to the main platform. Somehow, he knew they couldn't be seen or heard now.

He gazed up Hermione in awe. She was staring at him now, the force of her gaze so intense he couldn't breathe. He heard a sound like thunder or surf. Her long hair whipped in the air as if windblown. Her other sleeve had fallen down, and her shoulders glowed in the half-light. She looked fiercer and more powerful than anyone in a lemon-yellow sundress ever had. The Goddess of Daisies and War.

"It's your turn," she said in a low voice as she approached him. "I want you to remember why you're waiting."

It all happened shamefully fast.

Hermione straddled Draco. Her fingers delved into his hair and pulled his face up to hers. She kissed him, her mouth wet and open, her tongue stroking his. Arousal swept through him, powerful and consuming. He grabbed Hermione's waist and pressed his hips up, seeking the fever heat between her thighs. Her yellow dress... it wasn't nearly soft or naked enough. His fingers scrambled under the lacy hem, and he groaned when he touched her skin. His hands slid up her legs until his fingers were inside her knickers, inside her. She was impossibly hot and silky, fragrant with lust. Draco bit her bottom lip.

"I said it was _your_ turn," Hermione growled. She leaned back, took his hand by the wrist and pulled it away from her. He was shocked to hear himself whimper.

"Please," he begged.

"No," she said ruthlessly. She placed his palms on her hips, over that bloody dress again. "If you touch me anywhere else but here, I will stop."

It took all of Draco's strength to keep his hands on Hermione's hips, but he did because he believed her threat. She stroked his face and neck and arms. She tugged his shirt out of his trousers and traced the muscles of his stomach, making him gasp. He gripped her hips hard, knowing his fingers would leave bruises. Marking her gave him dark, primal satisfaction.

His moment of control was ripped away when Hermione unbuttoned his trousers and reached inside his pants. He bucked against her hand and whimpered again. She began to stroke him hard and fast, and it was pure bliss. He had to touch her. His fingers stroked up her back to the soft skin above her dress.

Hermione slowed her hand, and Draco stared up at her, his eyes wild.

"Please don't stop," he whispered.

The goddess took mercy. She moved again, her strokes stronger now. Draco's head fell back against the brick wall. He gazed up at her face, enthralled. Whatever magic she'd cast on this room was still being worked. She was a storm all around him, above him, her hair whipping in the air. Her skin gleamed bronze in the shadows. The sound of thunder rumbled in his ears and his chest. He couldn't tell what was magic and what was _her_, and he didn't care. He could die from the intensity of this pleasure and never even care.

Draco shut his eyes and began to cry out. Ecstasy rose up inside him, beyond any hope of control. Heat and brilliance flared through his body as he came. His heart, his breath, his mind - every vital part of him – was flung up into the beautiful storm that was Hermione. He pulled her close to him, his fingernails digging into her shoulder blades. His lips rested against the freckles on her shoulder. He didn't even know if she'd come.

"Train's here in five minutes," Hermione whispered in his ear. Draco shivered as she licked the sweat off his neck and placed a kiss upon his pulse.

He wanted to kiss her back. He tried to move, but he was too weak. So he just lay against her, floating, his eyes closed and his hand on her back. Thank God breathing was involuntary, or he'd be as dead as Neville's dead toad.

"The privacy spell will also lift in five minutes," she said. "See you a week from Sunday for that proper date."

Draco felt Hermione climbing off him and forced his weary eyes open. She was walking away, casting a quick _Scourgify_ and running her fingers through her hair to remove any evidence of their intimacy. For a moment, he thought she would leave him without another word, but then she stopped. Framed in the silvery shimmer of an archway, she gazed back at him with a stunning smile.

"Oh, and you should know I prefer milk chocolate to dark," she said. "And I hate the smell of lilies." With that brisk advice, she turned and left.

It seemed like only seconds had passed when Draco heard the shrill whistle of the train arriving in the station. He'd sat on this bench for five minutes – entranced, sated, stained and half-undressed. And now, possibly in full view of any curious passersby. He stood up, cast his own _Scourgify_ and fastened his trousers. He tried not to sway as he walked, but it was difficult. He still felt dizzy with pleasure, like he'd drunk ten Tahitian Zombie Bombs.

"Snap out of it, you prat," he muttered to himself. "It was only wild, incredible, mind-blowing, soul-ravishing sex." And they hadn't even actually had _sex_ yet.

From somewhere to the left, a light Stinging Hex struck his hand, and he yelped. Luckily, no one heard, and the hex had enough bite to startle him into sharp focus. He didn't dare look at her.

"Dad!"

He turned and saw Scorpius running toward him, a huge smile on his pale face. Draco's answering smile was just as huge. He lifted his son up into his arms. For the first time in the four, long years since Astoria's death, he felt like his world was perfect and complete again.

"How were your exams?" he asked as he set Scorpius back onto the ground.

"Great. I think I did really well."

"Why wouldn't you? You're a Ravenclaw."

As they loaded trunks onto a trolley, Draco glanced back at Hermione. He had to see her one more time. She was hugging her daughter, her eyes closed. The steam of the train floated around them. A few seconds later, Hermione opened her eyes, looked right at Draco and smiled. Then she turned her attention back to Rosie, and he turned his attention back to Scorpius who was talking about Herbology with surprising enthusiasm.

"Can we build a greenhouse off the garden, Dad? Professor Longbottom suggested some experiments I could conduct over the summer. And I have some ideas of my own about Abyssinian Shrivelfigs. "

"Of course." Draco knew the perfect place for a greenhouse, right over Great-Great-Grandmother Zophia's lily garden. The flowers did have an oppressive, cloying fragrance. He'd send the bulbs by crate to his new colleague, Longbottom, with instructions not to plant them near Hogwarts.

However, Granger was wrong about dark chocolate. He _loved_ it when she was wrong.

Fine chocolate was as fascinating and complex as fine wine. He would take her to Venezuela, through the jungle to the Barlovento Plantation. Its cocoa beans were nourished in earth rich with vanilla, honey, and exotic fruit. Tasting their chocolate was frequently compared to orgasm.

Conveniently, the plantation's guest villas had heavenly, white beds.

Yes, this was beginning to sound like a proper date indeed.

* * *

**THE END **

* * *

**Author's Ending Notes:**

The bit about dark chocolate, Venezuela and the Barlovento Plantation is an amalgamation of facts derived from the website of fine chocolate maker, Michel Cluizel.

Thank you for reading September First - reviews are welcomed. :)


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